


It Takes A Village

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (for GOTG 2), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Comedy, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gamora getting to know her father-in-law, Gamora-centric, In-Laws, M/M, Mostly T-rated, Multi, Oviposition, Pre-Infinity War, Starmora, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Unplanned Pregnancy, failsex, pro-choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Interspecies hybridization doesn't happen,she said.It's impossible,she said.Unfortunately, she was wrong.





	1. The Scene of the Crime

**Author's Note:**

> **Hi guys! This is a serious fic generated from a quasi-cracky concept that was tossed around on the kragdu/gotg fandom discord a while back. I won't give out any spoilers, but I believe it was Keigan's prompt. Whether or not they remember it is a different matter! But this is mostly comedic family fluff feat. the Guardians and Ravagers. The main focus is on Gamora, with a side-serving of her trying to figure out Yondu as a person. The main pairing is Starmora, but there are a few mentions of Kragdu on the side, because that's where I get off. :peace sign:**

It all went smooth as silk until Gamora pulled the knife on him.

Peter, who had until that moment been lovingly stroking every patch of bare green skin in reach, found himself flat on his back with a very sharp blade balanced tip-down on his windpipe.

“What the hell?” he screamed.

Or, y’know. Scream-whispered. Scrispered. As close as you could get to a scream when you and your girlfriend were consummating your finally-spoken thing in one of the _Quadrant’s_ cabins – which, Peter knew from several long, harrowing nights spent blasting music to drown out the eager smack of the captain’s headboard against the wall and Kraglin’s hips against Yondu’s ass, had very thin walls.

Gamora said nothing. She scooted down his body – and damn, if she wanted to ride him cowgirl, all she had to do was say. But her attention wasn’t on Peter’s legs. Or, for that matter, what lay between them.

She held the knife in a casual grip, deceptively loose. The blade tickled whenever Peter gulped – which he did quite a lot, as Gamora tugged his hand from his pocket and tapped the knuckles until it unfurled.

She stared at the object Peter had been in the process of retrieving.

“What sort of ridiculous weapon is that? It’s all floppy.”

“It’s not a weapon,” Peter burbled. “It’s a condom.”

Gamora blinked at him.

“A sausage wrapper?”

Still nothing.

“C’mon. You must’ve heard of them. A little boy’s sleeping bag, a weiner-holder, a spunk-stopper” –

Satisfied that it wasn’t dangerous – or at least, that it would take a mind more ingenious than Peter’s to wield it lethally – Gamora slid her knife back into her unbuckled thigh sheath, where it lay beside them on the sheets. Sweat sparkled on her bare breasts, making it perilously difficult for Peter to concentrate on her scowl.

“What's the point?”

Was he really going to explain this? Peter drooped from head to toe, including the bits centered roughly between. He kinda expected to be at the thrusting and squelching stage by now. At the very _least_ a bit of lower-body fondling. Not explaining basic sex-ed to a grown-ass assassin.

“It. Um. Wraps around your cock. My cock! To stop any of my, y’know…”

“Jackson Pollocks,” Gamora supplied.

“Uh, yeah. Let’s roll with that. Any of my Jackson Pollocks getting in your hoo-ha and resulting in an unwanted bundle of joy. Not that I wouldn’t want your bundles of joy!” he hastened to add. “Just, y’know. Maybe not on our first time. Give it a few years, wait and see?”

And then he turned hopeful blue eyes on her, angled his crotch a little more into the light, and awaited her verdict.

“It’s to prevent pregnancy,” said Gamora slowly. Peter nodded. And diseases, Yondu told him – although mentioning that was guaranteed to pull the plug and drain any bedroom atmosphere they had left.

“Better safe than sorry, right?”

Gamora took that in. She watched him with the sort of calculating expression Peter associated with Rocket and complex math. And – God. He didn’t want to be thinking about Rocket right now.

“You realize interspecies hybridization is impossible, correct?”

It was Peter’s turn to be bemused. “Uh, come again?”

“You and me,” Gamora explained patiently, splaying her slim green fingers over a broad pink chest. “We’re not merely different races. We’re different _species._ No relation whatsoever.” She tapped her nails lightly against the rapid-fire thunder of his heart. “It would be like an Orloni trying to procreate with an Asgardian.”

Peter donned a cheesy grin. “Am I the Asgardian?”

Her silence told him everything he needed to know.

“Wait, I’m the Orloni? That’s not fair!”

“I’m merely surprised,” Gamora continued, lifting the flaccid plastic sheathe from Peter’s hand and sneering at it close-to, “that Yondu didn’t inform you of this. I know he was far from the most responsible father, but…”

If Peter didn’t want to bring up his furry accomplice in the bedroom, he _definitely_ didn’t want to bring up his dad. And... Well. Placing that word in conjunction with Yondu still felt unspeakably strange.

Strange, but kinda nice too. Warm, almost. As if a piece of an ancient puzzle had finally slotted into place, a gap within him filled with mortar and trowelled over, and…

Yondu filling gaps inside him. Oh god. Peter needed to puke.

“New rule!” he said breezily, holding Gamora by the hips. “No daddy-talk in the bedroom. Unless you’re into that, in which case…”

Gamora reached for the knife again. Abort, abort, abort.

“I won’t talk about Thanos,” said Peter, patting her lower back and avoiding the cybernetic worm that threaded through the muscle. “You won’t talk about Yondu. Not when we’re like this. Deal?”

“Hm.” Gamora gave it due consideration, drumming the rhythm to _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ against the hilt (Peter suspected that was her favorite from the Zune, although he had yet to make her admit it). “What if Thanos mounts an attack? It would be foolish to expect you to avoid his name for my sake.”

Peter jiggled his head through a nod. “Okay. Sure. In that scenario, I’ll say his name. Otherwise – nada.”

“What if Yondu has a heart attack?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“He’s old,” said Gamora. “And he eats far more Beasties than are recommended on a day-to-day basis. Those things are made of cholesterol.”

Not a single punch pulled – that was what he liked about her. He just hoped she wasn’t so scathing when she talked about him with the others.

Peter’s shoulders slumped. She compared him to an Orloni. Of course she was. Dammit.

But they had better things to do than contemplate Yondu’s cardiac health. Peter smoothed up Gamora’s thighs, squeezing the lean-cut muscle. Oh, she was magnificent. Power oozed from her even when she was still, thrumming like lightning under the surface of her skin.

...Or perhaps her electronics were just malfunctioning again. A pat to the head assured Peter his hair wasn't standing on end. Safe to proceed.

“How about this? _Except_ in cases of imminent death, we don’t discuss our fathers in the bedroom. Now c’mon. You’re so gorgeous; I wanna make you see stars, baby…”

Gamora indulged his kiss – a slow and smoky-hot melt. Her lips tainted faintly of saffron, like the skin on her favorite fruits, and oh, Peter could float like this forever...

Gamora pulled back.

“What about Ego?” she asked.

Peter would’ve dashed his head on the floor, if that didn’t mean letting go of her.

“ _What?_ ”

“Ego.” She tucked her soft purple hair behind her ears. The line of cybernetics on her cheekbone glimmered like faraway constellations, and she was so beautiful, so utterly fucking drop-dead _stunning,_ that Peter could’ve cried. Given the subject matter, he was sorely tempted to.

“ _Ego?_ ”

“He is your birth father, correct? But you don’t consider him family.”

“Damn right I don’t! Gamora, why – why are you asking this?”

“You told me I wasn’t allowed to say your father’s name in the bedroom. I just want to keep our line of communication clear.”

Peter breathed in. Peter breathed out. Peter tried his damned best to introduce a little perk to what was currently deflating in a tangible representation of the atmosphere.

“Why would you want to say Ego’s name in the bedroom, Gamora?”

“I wouldn’t. He’s a monster who killed your mother and your siblings and tried to kill you.”

Peter groaned. “And _this_ is why I didn’t want to talk about him. Okay?”

Gamora nodded. “I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

“Me too. Can we please get on with the sex?”

And so, they did.

Gamora paused halfway through, dragging Peter from his happy haze. He pushed up on his elbows, trying to entice blood back into his brain.

“Are you alright? You’re not hurt? Oh god, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You don’t have the strength,” said Gamora reassuringly. “I was just wondering why none of your previous partners mentioned that wearing condoms is unnecessary, so long as both parties take venereal vacs.”

Peter rested shaky hands on her waist and did his best to focus on her words. “Uh. This is relevant, right now?”

“They probably thought it was one of your strange Terran customs,” Gamora decided. She flexed up and back down again; Peter’s eyes rolled so far they almost got lost in his head. “Like dancing to music and putting sticks up butts.”

Peter, flushed, panting, spit painting a silver-flecked line through his stubble, managed to cajole his features into a frown. “I-I told you, that’s just a _ph-phrase –_ fuck, Gamora!”

Gamora repeated the motion several times, then more when the feedback became increasingly positive.

“Or,” she said musingly, although her chest heaved higher than usual as Peter scraped the tip of her ovi’ again and again, where it contracted up tight to her cervix. “Or they just assumed that you were disease-ridden, considering the general poor hygience practices of your Ravager faction. Kraglin’s jumpsuit alone houses enough fleas to infest an entire planet.”

Realization struck. She covered her mouth.

“Wait. Is Kraglin another of your father-figures?”

Not really, but close enough. Luckily, by then Peter was too far gone to care.

 

* * *

 

 

That same not-quite-a-father-figure was the one to bang on his door next morning. Then boot it, when that failed to rouse them. When results remained inconclusive, he contravened on all of the Ravagers’ vague notions about modesty and privacy and a man’s right to his own space.

“Comin’ in. If I see any bits, I’m shootin’ ‘em.”

That tetchy warning was all they got. Peter barely managed to drag the blanket over him and Gamora in time. But, with a few clonked elbows and only one reappearance of her knife – where she’d been stowing it Peter didn’t ask, but considering the distance between them and her abandoned holsters, his imagination ran rampant – they made it.

“Sheesh, Krags!” Peter rolled to face him, keeping Gamora plastered to his stomach _just_ in case she decided to let that knife fly. She growled at him and sulkily rammed it in the pillow by his head. “The hell d’you want?”

Kraglin brandished his chronometer in answer. Peter still had his solars dialled back to their night-time setting; he squinted at the bleary numbers, scratching his stubble.

“Yeah, we slept in. So what? You ain’t the most punctual to breakfast yourself, most days.”

“Most days,” said Kraglin in that dry, jerky voice of his, “we don’t got a job.”

Shit. _Shit._ It all came flooding back.

The Gravarian Duchess. The warrant for his arrest. The fact that the Gravarian palace was currently undergoing renovations, and that the prisoners’ wing was no longer fit for occupation. And that trifling little detail about how the penitentiary quarters in the new accommodations were within spitting distance of the Duchy vaults.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If Peter could approach the Duchess and her newlywed beau at their gala and cause enough of a scene – a proposal ought to do it, or a claim that the young heir to the duchy was actually his bastard child – that ought to get him tossed in the dungeon for the conceivable future. And if Kraglin claimed to be a Terran rights lawyer intervening on behalf of the Xandarian Rare and Uncontacted Species Protection Board, and _just happened_ to smuggle in one of the laser-cutting baubles that had survived the demise of their mining rig in Ego’s core…

Well, let’s just say that it would be a very good day.

Shame the gala started ten minutes ago.

Blood drained from Peter’s face, in much the same way he could imagine units slipping through chinks in his holonet accounts.

He didn’t _hoard_ units, not like Yondu did – old skinflint could afford to refurbish the _Quadrant_ five times over and still not be out-of-pocket. But he appreciated the comfort of a full kitty. Plus, after last month’s shenanigans he was down the cost of one M-ship, as well as a helluva lot of medical equipment.

Rocket burnt through their entire stockpile in his desperate race to build a fully-functioning life support chamber before Yondu’s frost-scarred lungs gave out. In Peter’s opinion, that meant Rocket should pay for it – or Yondu himself, seeing as he was the dumbass stupid enough to fling himself into hard-vac without a suit.

All to save Peter. Yeah. There was that bubble again, popping in his chest, warmth sprouting inside him like he’d inhaled a Groot-spore over Xandar.

However, there were some things it was better not to try and out-stubborn the ex-Ravager captain and his new furry sidekick on. One of those was a functioning medbay. When both involved parties refused to fork up, Peter grudgingly opened his own pockets.

It was self-preservation, mostly. After all, he’d spent all thirty-four years of his life as an immortal, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. Now his meatsack was just as puny and liable to spout leaks when stabbed as that of any other Terran.

He had to look after it. In order to do that, he needed money, and in order to get money…

In order to get money, he had to put on pants.

Peter groaned. He pushed up on one side, sliding Gamora onto the mattress. Her nails scratched his bare belly, little points of fire.

“Come back soon,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Her frown looked a mite less severe than usual. Peter ducked to kiss her, but was prevented by Kraglin’s extravagant sigh.

“Christ! Alright, I’m coming. Look away now unless you want an eyeful.” He layered the blanket over Gamora and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. He scratched his hairy shins and smacked his lips in an effort to dispel the sour tang of morning-mouth. Afternoon mouth, considering the time on Kraglin’s chronometer.

“Just me and you then? This’d be a lot easier with Yondu.”

“He’s busy,” came Kraglin’s quick response. “Organizin’ crap with Stakar. Reintegratin’ factions an’ so forth.”

Bullshit on all accounts. Yondu no longer had a faction to integrate, and the one time Stakar called to check on his recovery they all had to suffer the horror of watching two old pirates, renowned across the starways for crimes that ranged from arson to grand larceny to jaywalking and worse, share a misty-eyed embrace.

It had been awkward for everyone, most of all the two involved. Stakar hadn’t been back since.

But Peter knew better than to ask why Yondu didn’t want to be running about after a night with Kraglin. There were some scars his brain would never heal from, and others he never wanted to inflict upon it.

“Alright,” he said, shimmying pants up his hips and rolling down his shirt. A scrub of his face with cheap disposable Pro-Clean wipes – far more convenient than water, and less wasteful too, considering how much matter-recycling had improved over the last Astral-century – and Peter was good to go. “I’m off. Gamora?”

She watched him, cocooned in a blanket that smelt of both of them entwined. She tucked a misbehaving wisp of hair behind her ear and Peter’s heart did its valiant best to catapult out of his mouth.

“Did you want something?”

Peter wanted a lot. He wanted to touch her, hug her, draw her up for a kiss and muss her sleep-ruffled hair into even greater disarray. But Kraglin was watching with his usual sneer. If Peter didn’t want to endure his scathing commentary for the trip to Gravaria, it was safest to keep his hands to himself.

The curl escaped once more, twizzling prettily over her forehead. This time it was Peter who brushed it back.

“I’ll be back in a week,” he said. Gamora nodded.

“If you are not, I will drive this ship into Gravaria’s soil and slay everyone I lay eyes upon until they return you to me.”

Fuck. If it weren’t for Kraglin, their rapidly-dwindling timeframe, and the promise of a full million units’ worth of star-diamonds, Peter would have launched into round eight right there and then.

“Are we goin’ or ain’t we, Pete?”

Going. Unfortunately. Peter drew away, grabbing the Zune from its usual reverent shrine on his bedside table.

“One week,” he reminded her. 

“Yes. I heard you the first time.”

 

* * *

 

She waited for the door to close before yawning wide enough to pop her jaw. She rose to her feet, cat-slow and languid, blanket draped around her like a hooded cape.

The pad to the bathroom and the little rituals that followed – a scowl at her hair, a gargle from the faucet and an efficient scrub in the shower – had become so familiar they were practically routine.

Less so were the olive patches on her neck. Lovebites, from where Peter had held her on his lap, his body a contorting, writhing map of pleasure; where he’d sucked her skin like he wanted to drink her, as his big Terran palms smoothed up her back and down her shoulders without lingering on a single metallic ridge…

Gamora shivered. Funny. She wasn't cold. If anything she felt _light;_ buoyant almost, as if there was a helium balloon expanding in her head.

She pressed between her legs – then sighed and angled the shower hose accordingly. Peter’s Jackson Pollocks were quite substantial. Nevertheless, she was tolerably clean within five minutes, and there was still a half-gallon left in the water-rationing tank.

A half-gallon left in the tank, and Peter was off ship.

Gamora considered her options. Then she smiled to herself – a fleeting flash of a thing, unaccustomed to creature comforts. She placed the shower head back on its hook, turned the heat to full, and let the steam bathe away everything but the memory of breath on her neck and the whispery scratch of a beard.

It all went fine and dandy until she completed the morning’s ceremonies with a visit to the fold-out waste pan.

Gamora blinked at her ovipositor. It blinked back, peeping from between her outer lips.

No biggie, as Peter might say. It wasn’t common to see it dangling, but it did happen, on occasion. Muscles relaxed after an enjoyable round, and while Peter's puny strength prevented them from doing anything adventurous, he _had_ sounded quite delectable when he whimpered her name.

Gamora pushed it back up. It nestled into its usual place, tucked tight against her uterus.

She waited five seconds just to be sure, then shrugged and reached for the Pro-Cleans.

 


	2. Bridge Over Troubled Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry if I fucked up people's notifications this morning - my internet is a little bitch (courtesy of me living in the middle of nowhere) and sometimes it doesn't post things correctly. Hopefully everything's working now! And uh. Wow. Thank you SO MUCH for all the comments/kudos! I honestly wasn't expecting this much support, but I'm delighted with it! I warn you now - this fic does get a little 'weird'. I hope you'll stick with it, but I won't hold it against you if you get put off!**
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Gamora meandered through the ship, not headed anywhere in particular. Her day stretched before her in a nebulous cloud.

On Titan Crag, there was an order to things. A routine. If you weren’t off murdering people for your father –  _not your father, not really, no matter that you keep the balanced knife he gave you in the lining of your jacket_ – you trained, or did recon, or battled one of your siblings. Then you killed someone else, went to sleep, woke up again. Rinse and repeat.

Here, faced with nothing but the _Quadrant’s_ musty labyrinth and the endless wheel of space, no tasks on her itinerary, Gamora had nothing to do but walk and think.

And prod her ovi’ up again. 

It slipped as she walked, a warm weight that bulged out the gusset of her underwear. Gamora champed her teeth and bore it.

Who knew? It might retract of its own accord. She meant it when she said Peter wasn’t strong enough to hurt her. Terrans were moderately endowed, with no spiny protrusions or exploding bungs. Nothing capable of leaving permanent damage.

Even so, it’d been a while since she last worked a seduction job, and they hadn’t used any extra lubrication. Peter had been so beautiful under her, flushed and trembling and chewing on his plump pink lips.

She couldn’t help but go a little wild – but not wild enough to warrant this.

Her underwear squashed the ovi’ back on itself. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t exactly _comfortable_ either, and by the time Gamora reached the Bridge she would rather not be pulling undignified faces every time she lay her foot flat.

Gamora growled. She glanced over her shoulder, then the other one, sweeping both blind spots.

No one. The tunnel was deserted.

She ducked behind the rim of an airlock hatch, just in case. Then it was easy: a quick tuck between her legs, a _push,_ and –

 _Shllp_.

No more ovi’.

Gamora breathed a sigh of relief. Ten seconds later, she sighed in a considerably more exasperated tone as it once more slithered for freedom.

This was getting ridiculous. But Gamora was an assassin – galactic quality, at that. She had killed hundreds of men and women and others at Thanos’s behest. A little discomfort hardly made a difference.

If her body determined to misbehave, Gamora would treat it the same way she would Quill or Rocket when they were being childish. She would scowl at it, let it know her displeasure, then either work out how to tackle the problem or ignore it until it changed its ways.

She marched onto the Bridge, determined to prove to her reproductive organs that they were not the ones in charge.

The observation deck capped the _Quadrant,_ a tonsure of reinforced glass. Within it stood Yondu Udonta, cross-armed and crosser-faced, glowering out at his kingdom.

That kingdom was significantly less impressive than it used to be. Mantis sat beside Rocket, doing her best to look attentive as he lectured her on the intricacies of starway navigation. Drax polished a knife in the corner, the tang of the lubricant and the repetitive swish of the leather constructing a familiar landscape of sound and smell, dragging Gamora back to the days when two little girls did their sword maintenance side-by-side.

It was all very cosy.

And Groot? Groot passed out on Yondu’s chair, dead to the galaxy. An empty Beasties packet wafted beside him, stirred by the fans above.

“You can move him, you know.”

Yondu’s eyes twitched, meeting hers in the glass. “Twig needs sleep to grow up big an’ strong an’ shit.”

Gamora couldn’t help but smile as Groot rolled onto his belly, snoring high as a hamster.

“It’s still your seat.”

“Oh yeah? You sayin’ I look like I need to sit down? Don’tchu go coddlin’ me, woman, just cause I took one flarkin’ lil’ spacewalk without a stars-damned suit” –

“Don’t mind Blue!” Rocket hopped off the nav plinth, leaving Mantis in sole charge of steering. Gamora would be more concerned about that if she could see any meteorites in ramming distance that were too large to fizzle off their shields. “He’s just pissy because Quill and Krags ran away without him. Eloping most likely. I would too, if I had to wake up every morning and smell those teeth.”

Yondu didn’t dignify that with an answer. He scowled at Rocket, face crinkled as the dehydrated fruit in galley-storage, and marched off to find a brooding spot devoid of company.

“If ya let Bug blow up my ship, you pay for it,” were his parting words. And then he was gone.

Gamora didn’t blame him. Most days, she suffered that same urge – although until recently, the _Milano’s_ close confines didn’t allow her to indulge it. Thank the stars that the _Quadrant_ had ample space to house their ragtag crew while still providing options for solitude. Or for a woman to wrestle with her ovi’ in peace.

She shifted, ever so subtly, to favor her left leg.

“That’s interesting,” she said. “Obfonteri told me Udonta was otherwise occupied today.”

Rocket hiked a fuzzy brow. “We been _cohabiting_ two months now and you still call them by their surnames? Y’know they’re your daddies-in-law, right?”

Gamora didn’t see the point in this argument. “It’s a mark of respect. But why would Obfonteri lie to me?”

What purpose would it serve? He must’ve known the deception couldn’t last. Unless he was trying to con _Peter_ instead, in which case…

Mantis made a cheep of distress. She was strapped fingertips-to-elbows in holo-interaction gloves, and the air around her shimmered with liquid constellations.

“Rocket, I think that I may have…”

“Screwed up?” Rocket bounded back to her, assessed the starcharts, and grimaced. “Yeah. Good thing I didn’t actually hook ya up to shit. You realize yer supposed to plot courses _around_ the stars, not through them?”

Mantis’s slim shoulders fell. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at being a spacer.”

“You sure ain’t,” agreed Rocket cheerfully.

Drax nodded his assent, and Mantis drooped more. Gamora didn’t pride herself on her capacity for empathy, but if they kept this up, the girl would be a puddle.

“However,” she said, walking past the command chair and petting Groot’s head along the way. “You do have other uses. You would be my first choice as an interrogator, should we ever require one’s services.”

For some reason, that made Mantis’s antennae quiver. “I don’t _want_ to be an interrogator.”

Gamora shrugged. Not once during her childhood had she looked up at the violet, star-spangled spread of the night and thought to herself ‘I want a mad Titan to descend from the heavens, murder half the population of my planet and take me in as his own’.

Sometimes, the universe didn’t listen. Your prayers went unanswered and you got stuck with internal cybernetics and an ovi’ that kept doing its utmost to snake down your pant leg.

All Gamora could do – all Mantis or anyone else could, for that matter – was make the most of whatever holocards were dealt to them in the great casino of life.

“It’s still a useful talent to have,” she said, clasping Mantis's shoulder while taking care not to clip her bare skin. Once had been enough, as she pinned Mantis to the door on Ego's planet and the girl whispered _you are afraid._

If Mantis ever touched her again, she'd find out that Gamora still was, just a little. The thought that this girl could forage through her barriers, lay bare everything she kept stoppered up inside herself with a single brush of her fingertips... 

Gamora forced a smile.

“Once you have mastered basic battle training, your ability to manipulate people’s desires will be a major asset.”

Mantis shrank back. She tugged off her VR gloves, sucking the blood from her lips. “I don’t want battle training either. I told Peter – I don’t like fighting.”

Ah. There it was – that naiveté. Sometimes Gamora forgot Mantis grew up isolated with only an ancient Celestial for companionship, but never for long.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not you like it,” she tried to explain. “Eventually, it will come to you. You must learn to defend yourself.” Inspiration struck; she turned to her largest teammate. “Drax. You should teach her.”

Drax chortled merrily, slapping his thigh. Then frowned. “That was not one of your ‘jokes’?”

Gamora looked at him.

“No! I would crush her. She is far too puny.”

He made a fair point. Perhaps that was an indication Drax ought to learn to control his strength – but Gamora couldn’t risk Mantis winding up as collateral.

“Very well. You and me then. We will train together, once a day.”

Mantis couldn’t look more terrified if she was facing down a bilgesnipe. Gamora sighed.

“We start tomorrow.”

Hopefully, by then her ovi’ would cease its insubordination. The thought of it flopping loose, even in a practice bout, didn’t appeal.

How did Peter and Drax cope? At least (according to her limited knowledge of his species) Rocket’s was retractable.

“I am Groot?”

Seemed their youngest member had finished his nap. He yawned and stretched and blinked his moist brown eyes, then stretched his little roots for Gamora.

Gamora couldn’t resist. She hurried back to the chair and picked him up, looping him over one shoulder.

“I’m going to find Udonta,” she told him, patting the bark on his back. It grazed her sword calluses, crustier than a month ago. He was larger too, approaching the size of a regular infant. Research on Flora Colossus and Planet X turned up few conclusive results, but Gamora assumed the rapid growth meant they were doing something right, glutting him on water and as much natural starlight as they could find. “See what’s got him so irritable.”

“Age?” Rocket suggested, taking the command chair for himself and lolling against the arm. His tail curled cheekily around his legs. “Indigestion?”

“Perhaps he is in pain from coitus?” suggested Drax, ignoring Gamora’s glare and her pointed cover of Groot’s ears. “He and Kraglin were particularly loud last night.”

Mantis shook her head. “They were not having sex. They were fighting. Unless…” Her eyes went round; she looked to Gamora, the most reliable person in the room, for assurance. “Is it _normal_ to call your partner a ‘shit-shagging nerf-herder with a brain full of rad-waste’?”

Rocket snorted. “Define _normal._ This crew don’t come no way near.”

Gamora, not having had the most nuclear sexual awakening, couldn’t provide Mantis with an honest answer. She opted to focus on Groot instead, as he nuzzled her neck and stuck his tongue out at Drax.

“Don’t be rude. Look, whatever’s bothering Udonta, I’ll sort it out. Obfonteri and Peter don’t deserve to come back and face an argument. They’re working a difficult job right now.”

Making eyes at a Gravarian duchess. Oh yes – Peter would find that difficult indeed.

But jealousy was foolish. Gamora didn’t immerse herself in pointless pursuits.

Peter’s gaze might latch onto the occasional rounded rump, but it never lingered, not for long. Not anymore.

Plus, if anything _did_ occur with the Duchess… Well, Gamora had slept with her fair share of people in the name of work. She knew, logically, that she couldn’t hold it against him - even if the thought of it made something sharp prod around in her chest while her fingers twitched for her knives.

“Good luck with that,” Rocket said. “I know Blue. He’ll stop being pissy when he feels like it, not until then.”

“Hm.” Gamora wasn’t convinced. She’d see for herself, she decided, following Yondu into the ship’s main tunnel: a hollowed-out backbone that extended from Bridge to thrusters, corridors branching off on either side.

He was Peter’s sort-of parent, after all. And while she disagreed with Rocket’s claim that they were in-laws – bonding ceremonies were an excuse for frippery and fucking and Gamora only enjoyed one of those things – that did make Yondu her _something._ In Peter’s absence, she’d try and unruffle his feathers as best she could.

Her ovi’ kept nudging her leg. When slipping into the nearest bathroom and manually restuffing it failed, she gave in.

It didn’t hurt. In Gamora’s experience – performing field operations on herself when shrapnel sliced skin and blaster bolts flew astray – this meant it wasn’t serious. But it was irritating, not to mention more than a little mortifying should anyone suss the cause for her restlessness.

It was the _why_ that confused her as she tramped towards Yondu’s cabin, at the end of the tributary closest to the Bridge.

If nothing was injured or seriously stretched, why had sex with Peter – sweeter and tamer than any sex she’d had before – activated the drop response on her ovi’?

Gamora reached the door: a solid slab of steel, scarred with the slashes and scorches of mutinies past. She rapped on it twice, still marinating in her thoughts.

Unless…

No. That was impossible.

She and Peter were different species! And Peter himself was a hybrid, so he was most likely sterile.

Wait. If Peter was a hybrid, that meant…

Ego had successfully inseminated Peter’s mother to create Peter. The regular laws of the universe did not apply.

Slick smeared the lining of her underwear. The ovi’s wet mouth opened and closed.

And somewhere deep inside her, a place Gamora had barely been _aware_ of until now, she felt _heat_.

Oh _stars._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Stars-damn brats, always with their yakkin'. Can't you leave a man to his peace?”

Yondu yanked open his door, grousing about nosy, good-for-nothin’ Guardians under his breath. He spent a short while studying the empty corridor and shut it again.

Senility?

No; he ran back through the names of Ego’s dead brats, like he did most nights, and found that he could recall each and every one.

What then?

Knock and run? Who would dare?

Three culprits sprang to mind. Two of them were currently off-ship, which significantly narrowed things down.

Yondu’s mood alleviated, just a fraction.

“Damn Rat,” he said fondly, and went back to plotting his escape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you for every kudos/comment! I'm sorry it takes me a little while to get to them - I'm pretty low-energy at the moment. But I read and cherish them all!**


	3. Breaking Locks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you all SO MUCH for your support! I hope you enjoy the chapter~ x**

Panic never helped anybody.

The situation was irrelevant. You could be fleeing your enemies, battling your sister, or trying to tell your half-Terran partner that you were about to lay his eggs. Whatever the scenario, you lost control of it the moment you lost control of yourself.

But Gamora had never been in control of this to start with.

Her body had acted without her permission. She felt betrayed by it, as if a parasite had squirmed under her skin and assumed command.

She told Peter it was safe.

She'd been poised, she'd been confident.

She'd been wrong.

Gamora sat in his room, on the bed where their copulation – the _insemination –_ had occurred. The scene of the crime.

Her comm sweated in her fingers, clammy and cold. The tiny transmitter flared intermittently green.

She had signal. There were no excuses for putting this off.

What was it Peter said to her as they lay together, her knife ticking off his jugular?  _Not that I wouldn't want your bundles of joy! Just, y’know. Maybe not on our first time._

Gamora sighed. No doubt about it; he was going to say _I told you so._

She preferred being the sensible one in their relationship. Having him outwit her – or at least, warn her about a risk that she chose to ignore – bit something ferocious into her pride. But Gamora, above all other things, congratulated herself on her pragmatism. She had to tell Peter eventually, and the sooner she did, the sooner he could get the gloating over with.

With a heartfelt sigh, she toggled the comm switch until it settled on her teammate's mugshot. Then she activated the ringer tone, sat back, and waited for the mockery.

It didn't come.

Blaster bolts did, though; a percussive repeat of it, _rat-a-tat-tat_.

The viewscreen – a five-by-five cube of pixels floating above the projection crystal  – showed the scenery on a see-saw, Peter's arm pumping back and forth as he ran.

“Peter?”

He startled; the camera image twitched and jumped. “G-Gamora?”

He hadn't noticed her dial tone. That meant things were serious.

Gamora took stock of what she could make out from his surroundings, ignoring the nauseating swing of the camera. She saw fountains: vast spiralling structures carved from petal-pink moonstone, from which water erupted like plasma from a misfiring engine.

Gravaria. Home of crystalline colonnades, stunning aerial gardens, and a Duchess who was rather more vindictive than Peter assumed.

He sprinted for cover. His vital signs revealed a heartbeat fast enough to outpace rail gun fire.

That churned up the earth behind him, and Gamora brought the comm closer to her face, squinting at -

“Are those _tanks?_ ”

“Spot of local bother! S'okay – we got it under control. Kraglin's gonna take them out any second.”

Another rumble; another geyser of dirt from the perfectly manicured lawn.

“ _Any second.”_

For all the time the Gravarians spent primping their landscape, they didn't care much about destroying it. That was the benefit of being the pioneers of Terraforming tech in this quadrant. No matter how many plasma bolts they sprayed, no matter how many statues were sheared off or tranquil lakeside scenes decimated, an hour with a restoration seed and the planet's surface would sparkle once again.

Peter wouldn't be so lucky.

Gamora stood, cracking from her miserable shell with a flex of her fists. “You need assistance.”

“No, no! We've fine, we've got this. Didn't I say we've got this?”

Gamora's eyes thinned to grass-green slits. “Is that your brain talking, Peter? Or what's between your legs?”

Peter held the comm still enough to capture his goofball smirk. “You didn't seem to mind what was between my legs the other” –

A clang prevented Gamora from thinking up a suitably scathing reply. Peter's head jerked around; he swung up the comm so that she could see.

“Hey! Kraglin did it!”

A whirr sounded, descending in tone. The tank’s gun port drooped like the snout of a scolded dog.

Gamora allowed herself a smile.

“Let's just hope he didn't compromise his identity, or phase two of your plan might be significantly harder to implement.”

Peter punched the air; the image span in a dizzying rush. “Yeah, we won! Wait, no. I have to get captured, don't I? Hell. Look, Gamora. I'm sorry – can this wait?”

Dammit. Gamora hadn't factored for this.

She expected Peter to answer the comm, flash his usual debonair grin and tell her it was all going to be okay. But reality had this annoying habit of not turning out the way she expected. 

Case in point: the egg. 

How long did she have? What was her timeline?

Gamora flashed back to her childhood. Lessons beneath Titan's dying sun, the ruby knife balanced on her knee.

She studied anatomical charts of her species, pouring over data collated on holographic pads as well as ancient crumbling almanacs, written in her native tongue, passed down mother-to-daughter across the generations. She remembered shuddering at the pictures Thanos showed her: dissected corpses, wombs laid open to the flies, fetuses at various stages of development.

He hadn't meant to horrify her - just give her an education. Like he hadn't meant to force her to torture her sister, again and again and again. That was merely battle training, nothing more sinister. 

Thanos didn't mean to eradicate half the universe either. He meant to  _save_ it. But he was going to do it anyway - and if Gamora brought a child into this world, they could very well be forfeit.

She did her best not to let any of this show on her face, but Peter had always been far too perceptive for his own good.

“Uh,” he said, dithering on the edge of the park-turned-battlefield. “Unless this is urgent?”

If you imbibed the right concoction of herbs, your egg would drop early, after three days rather than a fortnight. Then, unless it was lain inside a Zen Whobrian male to complete gestation, you wouldn't even need to stomp on the soft-shelled sac to get things over with.

“Gamora? Talk to me, babe.”

Three days. Just three days.

Peter wouldn't make it back in time. And right now he didn't need the distraction.

Gamora knew how his mind worked. Sentiment fastened its jaws on Terrans tighter than most species. He'd worry about her and about it, and then he wouldn't concentrate, and then he'd get hurt. Possibly even _killed._

And it would be all her fault.

They'd all taken his freakish survival abilities for granted when they didn't know their root cause. Peter Quill, the boy who could take a dip in hard-vac and jump up without a speck of frostbite. Peter Quill, the Terran who could grab an Infinity Stone.

But now, Peter was vulnerable. More vulnerable than ever. Gamora needed to protect him, even from his own better nature.

“It's not important,” she lied. “Just checking up.”

“You miss me! I knew it!”

Peter's elation gave him strength; he broke into a jog again, heading toward the depowered tank, from which a small furious figure extracted itself, its hair the brilliant white of a Gravarian noble.

“Okay, gotta go. She probably won't kill me if I turn myself into her custody.”

“Probably?”

Peter raised the comm watch to eye-level, snapping a mock salute. “I'll do my best not to get dead, ma'am.”

Gamora rolled her eyes, but couldn't quite smother her smile.

That fell as soon as Peter's picture fizzled out. Gamora stood in the darkness, the dimmed solars humming overhead.

His egg.

She had his egg inside her.

A piece of Peter, a piece of her. Both of them, bound together in a whole new union.

It was beautiful. It was incredible. It was a miracle.

Gamora had to get rid of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She hadn't forgotten her other commitments – in order of importance being: to find out what was getting Udonta's hackles up even more than usual, and to give Mantis some sort of rudimentary training so that the first time she took a blow she didn't start crying.

Gamora's lip curled, just a little. She fought to protect, it was true. But Mantis had an air about her that demanded more protection than most.

Drax found it endearing – Peter too. But Gamora had never fostered much of a maternal instinct.

 _I'm sorry,_ she thought, one hand resting on her abdomen. _This is for the best. For your sake._

If she would be an awful mother, Peter's fathering skills left still more to be desired. Their child deserved better. (Some might even mutter that Groot deserved better – although if they did so within Gamora's earshot, retaliation would be swift, decisive, and bloody.)

So how did she deal with this? The answer was simple.

 _Continue as normal_.

She would not let this control her. She would take the herbs, lay the egg, dispose of it appropriately, and move along with her life. And a few years after Thanos was dead – or decades, more like, considering Quill's current level of maturity – she could pose the question.

Maybe, just maybe, Quill would say yes.

Gamora pressed on her belly one last time. Her smile flowered brief and sweet.

“You got the shits?”

Udonta sauntered into the hangar, thumbs tucked in his arrow harness. The slim shaft caught the light, batting off his thigh. He jerked his chin at her hand, which quickly relocated to the safety of her back.

“Or did Quill just leave ya one in the oven?”

Gamora refused to flinch.

“I summoned you here to ask whether I could borrow an M-ship and fly to the nearest habitable planet. Not to discuss my love life. Although...” Deflection was the best mode of distraction, after all. “While we're on the subject, perhaps you and Kraglin could be a little quieter. We thought you were headed for marital homicide last night.”

“So did I,” said Udonta cheerfully. Gamora did her best to look sympathetic.

“I'm sorry. Do you want to talk?”

Udonta's left eyebrow quirked, his right nostril spasmed. His scoff left him with all the explosive force of a sneeze.

“I'm a Ravager, girlie. We don't _talk._ Not about shit like that.”

Gamora expected as much.

“The ship then,” she said, ignoring the pressure of her extended ovi' as she stalked for the bays. “May I use one?”

Udonta yawned, showing off teeth jagged as the edge of a saw. “Why the hell not. Seein' as we're all playin' happy families and yer shackin' up with my boy, an' all.”

For some reason, he didn't sound happy about that.

This had the potential to become problematic. Luckily, Gamora excelled at diplomacy. With a man like Udonta, she sensed, it was best to strike straight to the core of the issue; no dilly-dallying around with niceties or small-talk.

“You don't approve?”

“Quill don't give a damn about my opinion, so what's it matter.”

Stars. Ravagers might not talk about their issues, but they were long overdue starting. Gamora had heard toddlers less sulky than Udonta after you deprived them of their favorite candy – one toddler in particular, in fact. When the oldest guy on your crew was less mature than the youngest, that didn't bode well.

“I think you and I both know that that's not true,” she said. Udonta sneered at her.

“Don't get me wrong, girlie. If Quill breaks yer heart, he deserves everything he gets. If ya break his, he deserves everythin' _he_ gets for flauntin' all that stars-damned Terran sentiment. But if ya hurt him, if ya ever send him back to me needin' stitches... Well, Greenie. Happy families ain't gonna be so happy no more.” Udonta held her gaze for five long seconds, eyes pinched in by his wrinkles. “Jus’ a lil’ somethin’ to think about.”

And on that note, he stomped off across the hangar floor, swerving around the maintenance pits, coat tails hitting his calves like leathery castanets.

Gamora sighed. She rubbed her thighs, hating the wet squish of her ovi' between them, and followed him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The _Quadrant_ didn't have much of an airdrome. Five rows of locking clamps pinned M-ships to the ceiling like coats on hangers in a giant's wardrobe. An empty space marked where Peter's newly-repaired _Milano_ was due to crawl in to rest.

Gamora hoped it hadn't been damaged on Gravaria. At this rate, his 'bird would have more scars than the pair of them combined.

Adjacent to the unoccupied lock there dangled another M-ship, bulkier than Peter's and broader across the wing. _Warbird_ was stencilled on its undercarriage.

Gamora looked up as they passed beneath it, noting the silvery crosshatch marring the paint.

“You haven't buffed her since Xandar?”

Udonta's shrug was sullen as Groot's after a tantrum. “Used to got a whole crew of boys to do my scutwork for me. Ain't held a buffer in decades.”

Was Gamora expected to volunteer her services? “I'm sure Kraglin will give you a hand when he comes back.”

The winch mechanism on the far wall had a lever for each of the bays; once pulled, the selected M-ship would rumble from the rafters, ready for boarding. Udonta yanked the _Warbird's_ corresponding lever with undue viciousness.

“Kraglin's the jackass who thinks I can't ship out on a simple mission without getting dead.”

Ah. So that was it – the source of their enmity. Gamora felt a wash of understanding. She'd never been seriously injured in front of Peter, not to Udonta's extent – laid out insensible in a bacta tank for a week while his skin knitted and his burst lungs fused back into shape.

She dreaded to imagine how Peter would react, in Kraglin’s position. ‘Smothering’ wouldn't begin to cover it.

Udonta, meanwhile, took one look at the clamp Kraglin had installed on his M-ship's rear thrusters and began listing every cuss word he knew in A'askavarian.

“That fuckin', slaggin, son-of-an-Orloni-spawnin'...”

Gamora stepped closer to the clamp as the chains rattled to rest, the _Warbird's_ landing ramp bumping off the floor plates. She eyed it up. Hummed to herself. Flexed her biceps.

“I don't fuckin' believe this,” Udonta was saying. “Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? I'm his fuckin' cap'n! He don't get to decide when I come an' go!”

“Technically, you were disbarred.” Gamora fastened her grip on the clamp, then changed her mind. She adjusted so that she could drag it towards her chest as if she were performing a curl. “And he _did_ start the mutiny.”

Udonta shot her an eviller look than usual. “The hell do ya know about anythin' – woah there, girl? You wanna pull off the fuselage? Les' just hop on another ship.”

Gamora shook her head. Cybernetics creaked, raising ridges under her skin. “He'll have done the same to all of them, if he's serious about keeping you out of trouble.”

“Holdin' me prisoner on my own damn galleon, ya mean?”

The only sign of strain on Gamora's face was the bead of sweat trickling through her hair. The metal was far more revealing; the clamp strained, bending slow as taffy. It was a simple mechanism, compressing the emergency button besides the thrusters so the ship couldn't rev, let alone gun.

“I hardly think this qualifies as a galleon.”

“Well, fuck you too, greenie. I've known smaller city blocks.”

Gamora peered around her captive engine, blowing her darkening hair out her face. Not long now. Either the clamp would buckle or she'd shred the entire underside of the ship.

“Tower blocks, maybe.”

But before Udonta could puff up and spit a reply, Gamora braced her boots, dug her fingers into the ergonomic dents she'd squeezed into the clamp's side, and _twisted._

Crunch. Pop.

With a heave and a clang, Gamora deposited the clamp at Udonta's feet. She even avoided parking it on top of them – she was nice like that.

“There,” she panted, wringing out her stinging fists. “Can we go now?”

If Udonta was impressed, he refused to show it. He gave the clamp a hearty boot. Gamora had the good grace to look away as he hopped in a circle, kicking in a one-man flamenco.

“Ow, hell!”

“You did that to yourself.” Gamora caught her breath in short order – such was the benefit of mechanically augmented lungs. “Come on. This is your chance. Kraglin will return in six days – might as well make the most of the freedom.”

Udonta hadn't shipped out on a single job since Rocket welded his arrow back together. Knowing what little she did of his character, Gamora would have expected him to throw himself into the work.

However, while Stakar had been feeding them a decent monthly sum with which to construct repairs and maintenance, he had yet to send any heist specs their way. Their allowance felt more like a pension.

Hm. So Kraglin wasn't the only one trying to bundle Udonta up in bilgesnipe fleece. Gamora wouldn't make the same mistake.

“Come on,” she goaded, one boot on the ramp. She stretched the stiffness from the cables that lashed her shoulders to her wrists. “Are you really going to let me fly your M-ship?”

Seemed father and son were more alike than either cared to admit.

Yondu snarled, wriggling his sore toes. He limped past her, shoulder bumping off hers.

“Jus' remember, girlie. So long as ya fly with me, you follow my lead.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So Gamora and Yondu are off on a road trip! Comments and kudos feed a hungry writer (and encourage chapter updates... Not that I'm bribing you, but I'm totally bribing you.)**


	4. On the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you all for being so patient!!! Here's the next chapter. Enjoy that sweet family bonding!**

“What's the big deal?” Yondu wanted to know, as soon as they were on the move.

Gamora pinged Rocket to let them know where they were headed and when they were expected to return – a worry-date five hours from now, in case of Kree strafing, natural disaster, or sibling attack.

Yondu had his fair share of enemies. Between the two of them, a solid tenth of the people in the quadrant wanted them dead, and several more would gladly look the other way.

But it was just a short stop by the market, to pick up the necessary herbs to induce miscarriage, and for Yondu to do whatever space pirates got up to when they weren’t liberating items of value from their rightful owners. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Gamora didn’t say this out loud. Terrans harbored strange superstitions about _tempting fate_ and _jinxing oneself._ Gamora didn't subscribe to them, given Peter had yet to provide her with any empirical proof that _saying_ you wanted something resulted in the universe depriving you of it. However, she'd seen enough circumstantial evidence to make her wary, as she inputted the coordinates of the bazaar into their navigational array and selected the slow, fuel-efficient course.

There. Plenty of time to talk.

“Why ask me along?” Yondu continued. “I ain't exactly good for an errand boy. Sticky fingers, y'know.” His gaze roved her face, probing for a soft underbelly. “Unless yer lookin' for something to be stolen.”

It didn't find one. Gamora was all lean muscle, and beneath that lay steel. She shook her head. “You said you aren't very good at talking about your problems. I thought we could get in some practice before Kraglin gets home.”

Yondu's laugh sounded more like a bark. “Stars, woman. Yer insufferable. The hell did my boy do to deserve this?”

Somehow, Gamora didn't get the feeling he intended that in the ‘you’re too good for him’ way. But picking a fight wasn't her goal, even if it was Yondu's.

His combat ability was limited in a confined space, and one awry whistle could crack the glass and sign both of their death certificates. Peter and Kraglin would probably resurrect them for the sole purpose of yelling.

“He saved the galaxy,” she said. “Twice. Now, can you please tell me more about Peter?”

Their M-ship nosed into the asteroid belt, the _Quadrant_ receding to a speck on their aft sensor relay. Comets speckled the windscreen, scintillating sprouts of starlight that flourished and vanished within the space of a blink.

Yondu’s hand looped the joystick in a loose blue ring. He slouched over his seat, one foot switching lazily between the pedals, the very picture of peace – although judging by the way he cornered the oncoming projectiles, he could do to invest in flying glasses.

“What you want to know?”

“What was it like to raise him?”

“Ah.” Yondu toed the accelerator. “You’re after intel. Ain't no harm in tellin' ya that the kid were a right lil' shit. Smart chick like you already knows what ya signed up for.”

Gamora nodded. She certainly did.

“I suppose ya want stories?”

“An anecdote would be nice. Please concentrate on flying though.”

“Nah, I'm good. Okay, so this one time after we first picked the brat up off Terra...”

Seeing as space was black and their megawatt headlamps, bright though they were, couldn't pierce the sheer amount of nothingness between them and their destination, the _Warbird's_ AI ringed each oncoming asteroid in red. A neon swarm advanced upon them, ambling zombie-slow.

So long as Yondu stuck to the allotted route, mapped out by a dotted blue line, their chances of being crushed were minimal. Still, Gamora didn't want to distract him. Meteorites fizzled off their shielding, blasted silently into trails of dust, which twisted behind them in glossy red ribbons, reflecting the glow of their tail-lights.

“It can wait until we're past the field.”

“Damn, greenie. Was almost startin' to like ya. Don't tell me you think I oughta be locked to a medbay pallet – it’s hell enough dealin' with that bullshit from Kraglin.”

Gamora studied the backs of Yondu’s knuckles. Frostbite had split the skin. Not too long ago those bones had peeped through like the pits of four rotten apricots. His hands still quivered, just a little, whenever Yondu had to twist the joystick down.

“Not a hospital bed,” she said slowly. “But perhaps Stakar and Kraglin are correct to deny you active duty.”

Yondu yawed them viciously to the side, folding Gamora over the arm of her chair. “I been waitin' a damn month already,” he growled. “Still can't whistle for more'n a damn minute before I start hackin' up my lungs. If I ain't better now, I ain't never gonna be.”

He refused to look at her as she righted herself. Most likely, he didn't want to see her pity. He needn't have worried.

Space exposure took any mortal body a while to revive from, even Gamora's own. After Nebula burst her pod beyond Knowhere, Gamora suffered from chilly nips in her cabling for several Lunar cycles, jolting from her slumber when phantom ice fractals blossomed over her eyes.

But while the after-effects lingered, the nanites in her bloodstream had her on her feet within a minute. Peter recovered even faster, thanks to his Celestial Genealogy.

Yondu was neither a cyborg nor a half-god. He was just an old man with a magic stick, and after a certain age, things that you took for granted – things like taking a punch to the solar plexus, pulling an all-nighter, swigging an entire bottle of moonshine or enjoying a quick dip in hard-vac – you found you couldn't walk off anymore. Such was life.

Gamora knew this, because she was an intelligent woman aware of mortality's limitations. She didn't say it, because she liked to think that she was a wise woman too.

“So,” she said, studying the slow-mo blizzard of space debris. There had to be an exit point around here somewhere. “That means you have to win your fights in under a minute.”

Yondu squinted like he was trying to work her out. Then he laughed again – properly, this time.

“Ha! Think I might like you after all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The urge struck partway through the first tale – which related borderline abuse in such a fond manner that Gamora wasn't quite sure what to make of it. She wasn't sure what to make of the urge either, as Yondu retold how 'lil Quill' decided to go behind his captain’s back and invest in his first bot at fourteen.

Having had nothing in the way of formalized sexual education, besides overhearing the Ravagers describe their lovemaking habits in gratuitous and often exaggerated detail, the bot – charged forth to Yondu's bank account, to his current amusement and past fury – racked up a hefty bill for a number of salacious acts that Quill had been too chicken to actually follow through with. He'd let her unzip his pants before having a change of heart and all but sprinting out the brothel, leaving Yondu with the invoice and blackmail material for years to come.

As amusing as that was – at least, Gamora suspected she was _supposed_ to find it amusing, as opposed to wishing she could steal the time stone from Thanos's gauntlet and travel back along the stream to offer Yondu a few suggestions on the subject of parenting – she couldn't concentrate.

This was in part because of the urge, which bubbled at the back of her throat, words eager to spill. It was also because her ovi' kept stabbing her thigh.

 _Get on with it,_ it seemed to whisper. _Tell him._

Gamora glowered at her lap. _No. This is a terrible idea. If Peter doesn't need to know, his predominant father-figure certainly has no use for the information._

 _But you want to tell him,_ the voice crooned, curling slyly around her. _You want to tell_ _someone_. _You can't keep it all locked up inside._

Yondu had noticed her lacklustre response to his yarn-spinning. His enthusiastic pantomime of a panicked fourteen-year-old asking the madame whether he could _please just cancel and walk away, no harm done_ , waned into grumbles, then glares.

“Ya wanna navel-gaze in peace or what, girlie?”

“I don't have a navel,” said Gamora, honestly. Yondu looked surprised for a moment, before the proximity alarms forced him to focus on navigating the last patch of space debris between them and the open cosmos.

“Me neither. Bonus of hatchin' out an egg.”

Fate, it seemed, had alighted naturally on this topic of conversation. Gamora wasn't one to seek out signs, but equally, when one as blatant as this flaunted itself before her, it seemed foolish not to take the opportunity.

“I’m going to tell you something.” The satellite twinkled in the far distance, sketching a broad ellipsis around the nearest star. “Promise me you won’t crash the ship.”

Yondu nodded. Gamora told him.

Yondu crashed the ship.

“You’re _what?”_ He wheeled them away from the meteorite, sporting a new dent in their wing. Centrifugal force did its utmost to wrench them out of their seats; Gamora clung to her safety harness until the spinning stopped. When she finally dared open her eyes, she found Yondu goggling at her rather than the treacherous spacescape ahead, a meteorite swelling to dominate the windscreen. “You’re” –

“Twelve o'clock!”

“ _Pregnant?_ ”

The meteorite hit. They sailed away again in the opposite direction, a disc in a celestial-sized casino machine. Gamora banged her head on the dashboard and the back rest of her chair in rapid succession. Once she’d shaken off the whiplash she spun on Yondu with a snarl.

“Are you trying to make me throw up?”

“ _Are you tryin’ to give me a heart attack_!?”

Fair counter. Gamora conceded with a sigh. “Don’t panic,” she said, because she wished someone had been there to tell her the same thing.

Yondu huffed a laugh. His face was bluer than ever, but his knuckles stood out white around the joystick, as if he’d squeezed the blood from his hands up into his cheeks.

“That’s – that’s _impossible!_ You an’ Quill, y'ain’t, y’all ain’t” –

“I know,” said Gamora soothingly. “But Quill is also half Celestial.”

Yondu slapped the joystick, lurching them off-course. “Why the hell ain’t I seen any bastards before then? That boy’s spunk is dirtyin’ half the brothels in the Rim!”

Gamora craftily adjusted their heading from her own console.

“Because after the incident with the bot-hooker, you apparently imprinted on him the need for wearing a condom. That was uncharacteristically responsible of you. I’m impressed.”

“Naw, ain’t all that – Horuz picked up A’askavarian Clap from a port out past J’thaq space, an’ the smell of the pus made all of us puke solid for a week. Kraglin set up a mandatory class on how to wrap it for the sake of smooth operations, an’…” Yondu paused. “Why the hell’re ya tellin’ me this? Why ain’tchu tellin’ him?”

“I tried. He’s busy. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

Yondu didn’t have much in the way of eyebrows. At that, what little he boasted hurtled towards his equally non-existent hairline. “ _Doesn’t matter?_ ”

Gamora hastened to explain herself: “I’m getting rid of it. It’s okay – Peter never has to know.”

Yondu dropped his head into his hands. “Stars.” Then remembered he was supposed to be holding the joystick and adjusted himself accordingly. “ _Stars._ This why yer headed for the market?”

Gamora nodded.

“Gonna take some pills, make it all go away?”

She nodded some more. “Herbs. I'll make the potion myself.”

She learnt that trick out of necessity. Thanos hadn't deprived any of them of their ability to procreate, her or Nebula or any of their other siblings. Most likely, he thought it might come in useful, especially if they were ever required to perform a long-term undercover job.

Gamora had few things to be grateful for, when it came to nostalgia. But at the very least, she had never lain an egg in the service of her father.

Yondu dismissed the warning icon. It chirped plaintively at them from the bottom half of the screen until he stuck it on mute.

“Hell,” he grumbled, dragging up a schematic of the wing – after finally scooting control to his co-pilot. “That left a ding.”

Gamora wrestled them through the rest of the field. Flying wasn't her forte – Thanos kept minions on hand to chauffeur her to drop points and collect her again with her blade wet with blood and her heart a little number. But nevertheless, her hands – sniper's hands, assassin's hands – held steady enough that they left the belt without incurring more damage.

“I told you not to crash the ship,” she said, once there was nothing in front of them for a lightyear. Their satellite pootled about its orbit thirty degrees below.

Yondu isolated the ruptured compartments, activating the automatic sealant gel with a clatter of his nails across the console. Keys glowed at his touch. Glue oozed over the miniature ruptures, preventing the slow seep of air into the void.

“Hell, girl. I were expectin' ya to say you needed more tampons! Not that _you’re_ expectin'!”

Gamora set their trajectory, accounting for the gravity of the nearby star. Sharing your problems was supposed to make you feel relieved, unburdened, as if someone else shouldered your tribulations alongside you. Gamora reaped none such benefits. If her ears got any hotter, they'd be letting off steam.

“I don't require tampons,” she said, as that was the least embarrassing topic right now. “Zen Whoberian eggs only lay after fertilization. Otherwise, they are absorbed back into my system.”

Yondu treated her to a low whistle. His arrow didn't jiggle – Gamora assumed that meant it was mocking. “Whoopdee doo. Well, we ain't all so lucky.”

Before she could question that, Yondu turned on his chair – not to demand she relinquish piloting control, but to look at her, properly look at her, studying her profile in the winking dashboard lights. With the back-lit glow, her shape stood out as sharply as if it had been cut at swordpoint.

“So tell me, greenie. Why don'tchu want the brat of my brat?”

“It's not your decision to make,” said Gamora, just in case he was that stupid. “Nor is it Quill's. It is mine, and mine alone, and” –

Yondu flapped a hand. “Yada yada, your choice. Yeah. Just humor me, girlie. Whas this all about? Ya think he wouldn't love it? You've seen him with the Twig. His heart's so soft you could squeeze it for milk.”

Ah. He was concerned she meant this as a slight – that she was besmirching Peter's character. Gamora worked her clenched jaw from side to side, lessening the strain before she cracked a tooth.

“Of course he would,” she reassured him. “But Peter and I lead dangerous lives. Groot has been put in jeopardy several times already, and he is remarkably capable for a sapling his age. A fusion of our two species would most likely be helpless for _years_ after its birth.”

And there were those she knew who would capitalize on that. Those who saw _family_ as weakness, rather than strength.

Usually, Gamora delighted in proving them wrong. But at least the current components of her family were all capable of patching together an offensive – except Mantis, but their combat lessons might change that. A squalling infant wasn't. Their child would be nothing but a liability, a danger to them all.

Yondu rubbed the sparse bristles on his chin. “So it ain't havin' kids itself that's puttin' ya off?”

Gamora shook her head. The mechanics of it didn't faze her – although even if he returned early and caught her during the premature lay, Peter wouldn't have the necessary organs to give their offspring a proper lease on life.

“I would like to,” she revealed, a little stiff. It was a truth she was scarcely comfortable admitting to herself. But they floated alone out here, alone for so far in every direction, space so vast and dark that her voice sounded simultaneously loud as a bellow and soft as a whisper. “One day. When things aren't so...”

“Crazy?”

“Yes. That.”

“Hm.” The station swelled, miniscule divots sprouting into multi-shuttle docking ports that could fit forty to fifty vessels at a time. Yondu watched it grow, face unreadable. “Girl, I've given up on the crazy stoppin' before I'm dead. If you’re as clever as ya like to pretend, you will too.”

“What do you mean?”

Satisfied she wasn't going to steer them straight into the defensive ramparts that jutted like silver-grey snaggle teeth from the satellite's sides, Yondu kicked his feet up on his depowered pilot-plinth and cracked a yawn.

“You, me, Quill an' the rest? Our kind ain't never gonna know peace. But right now, you got a bunch of loyal idjits around ya. You got a steady flow of cash, courtesy of Stakar, an' it's one you don't even gotta put your back out for.”

He pointed out a suitable port; Gamora steered them along the line of his finger.

“If ya decide to get rid of it an' don't tell the boy, I ain't never gonna bring it up again. Not unless I want somethin'.” That went without saying. “But know this, girlie. You ain't never gonna get that normal life yer after. This is as best as it gets. Plus” - This with a wink - “Quill survived twenty years on a Ravager ship, an' he turned out mighty fine. Y'all can't be nearly so bad at this parentin' shit as I was.”

They docked without fanfare. Gamora was first out of the ship, marching into the neon jungle of street bars and overflowing market stalls, the holograms advertising everything from engine de-scaler to orloni-baiting rinks, the alleyways ripe with stale burger-grease, exhaust gas, the rank breath of the missionaries from the Eugenicist Church and the sweat of their fawning subjects.

He was right. That was the worst part about it. _He was right._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm so, _so_ grateful to you all for the amount of comments and kudos this has received! I can't thank you enough! Wowza! And YES, it would still be an absolutely stupid idea for Gamora to keep this baby, especially as she hasn't yet told Quill. But she's a bit of an emotional mess right now, even if she's not very good at admitting it to herself, and she's going to make a lot of decisions on a whim in the next couple of chapters. Yondu shouldn't be encouraging her to have it, but hey. He wants grandkids.**

**Author's Note:**

> **I love every commenter, everyone who clicks that kudos button. Thank you SO MUCH for showing your support!**


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